


Molly and The Woman

by trashyfiction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Caning, F/F, Flogging, Post-Reichenbach, Wax Play, light humiliation, porn with (some) plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashyfiction/pseuds/trashyfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I need to contact Sherlock Holmes and I'd like for you to make that happen.”<br/>I can practically feel myself go pale. “Sherlock Holmes is dead.”<br/>She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow at me.  “Now, Molly, there's no need to be disingenuous.  Not with me.  When you've come back from the dead twice, you tend to notice the signs.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Molly and The Woman

**Author's Note:**

> So, I have a little bit of personal BDSM experience, but I've chosen not to use a lot of terminology within this fic, because it's from Molly's perspective and she wouldn't necessarily have that specialized vocabulary.  
> Also, I'm sure most of you are familiar with the term "tell," but just in case you're not it refers to a small tic or habit (like tucking your hair behind your ears or licking your lips) that you do when you lie. 
> 
> A million thanks to my Beta, LittleLock, without whom my sordid affair with semicolons would have been aired publicly, among other sundry embarrassments. She whips my writing into shape. Any remaining errors are entirely my own. 
> 
> Read, enjoy, and if you feel so motivated I'd love comments!

_“How did Sherlock recognize her from—not her face?”_

The question rises unbidden to my mind months after I first asked it. I shove it away and glance at the body one more time before sliding it into its locker and scrawling my name across the the dotted lines on the paperwork. I might not have known it the first time, but this is the second time I've signed off on a faked death and I hope it'll be the last.  Sherlock's on his own now; I've done what I can.

Later, I kick my shoes off as soon as I'm in the door and walk around the flat in stockinged feet, upping the volume on the telly before ignoring it completely. I know he's alive—and it's not as if he ever came over or spent any time here—but everything still seems a little too quiet now.

I don't understand how do they do it, people like Sherlock Holmes and Miss Adler. Get all tangled up in international crime networks, play games that risk lives, and fake their own deaths, that is. How do they live like they're heroes in a spy movie when I wake up every day thinking about the shopping and what time I'll make it back from St. Bart's and how I haven't kissed anyone in months? Here I've just had a taste of intensity and high stakes and I have to blast crap telly and stalk around the flat just to calm my jangling nerves. Maybe I should sit down and actually watch something. It's done, nothing more to see, I just need to wait out the tail end of the adrenal response and everything will _fine_.

I flip to some police procedural type show, which I usually hate, but I barely follow the plot anyway and, when it's finished, I decide to turn in early. I'm about to go shut off the lights in the sitting room after changing for bed when I see her. She watches me from the sofa, hands clasped over crossed knees, and still giving off the impression of lounging. Cream suit, perfectly coiffed hair, red lipstick. I know it wasn't her but my mind still flashes back to the naked body on my table all those months ago. It might have been someone else but, if it fooled Sherlock, it must have looked an awful lot like her. I try to say something but I get stuck at the formulating a coherent sentence part.

“Molly Hooper, we haven't actually met. Charmed to finally meet you.” Her voice is perfectly cultured and something like velvet and vodka. “By the way, I like the yellow and you really should keep your hair down more often, it suits you.”

I look down at my nightie, because what else can I do? It's plain, nothing racy, but I did treat myself with the silky fabric, and I should really say something now. “Ah, thank you. How did—um. Can I help you?”

She leans forward and looks at me the way Sherlock looks at people—only where Sherlock's gaze glides over the details after noticing them, she lingers. “Oh, I think you can, Miss Hooper. I think you can do a great deal to help me.”

000

I end up putting on my dressing gown and making us both a cup of tea while she watches me from the sofa, easy and elegant. She makes my chipped coffee mugs look like fine china, and after enjoying the first few sips of her tea, she speaks. “I need to contact Sherlock Holmes and I'd like for you to make that happen.”

I can practically feel myself go pale. “Sherlock Holmes is dead.”

She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow at me. “Now, Molly, there's no need to be disingenuous. Not with me. When you've come back from the dead twice, you tend to notice the signs.”

I can't say anything—what can I? Sherlock said not to say anything to anyone. “I don't know what you're talking about.” Something from the past two days of excitement must have rubbed off, because my voice doesn't shake at all.

She tsks at me and rises casually to her feet, strolling around behind my chair and trailing her nail from my collarbone up to the hollow behind my ear. “You should watch that tell, it could get you into trouble.”

“What?”

“Your right hand. When you lie you use your thumb to crack your knuckles. Well, not even fully crack, really. You just go through the motions. It's clearly habitual.”

“I don't do that,” I lie and damn it if I don't have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep my thumb from dancing over the back of my fingers above the knuckle.

“I think I know you, Molly,” she says, ignoring my denial, “despite never having met you properly.” She's in front of me now and she tilts my chin up until I'm looking her in the eye. “In fact, I bet I know what you like.”

000

I have seen her website with all its mysterious jargon and naughty photographs lit like lingerie ads. I looked it up after Dr. Watson mentioned the Woman on his blog. So I know the kinds of things she does and, while I might be quiet, I do have a rich imagination. But none of my curious fantasies prepare me for actually being on the receiving end of Miss Adler's attentions.

“I watched you, you know, when Sherlock was running around in circles trying to get into my phone. It's remarkably easy to get access to security cameras when you know the right people.” As she speaks she picks up a black leather bag, like an old fashioned medical kit but bigger, and sets it on the coffee table. “I saw the way you interacted with him, the way you watched him. When you spoke, when you didn't. Of course, the point of the exercise was to keep an eye on Sherlock's progress, but, well, he wasn't getting anywhere and you presented a far more interesting way to pass the time.” She roots around in the bag thoughtfully and continues to speak, almost absently. “At the surface, you're quite obvious, Molly. You like intelligence—you're infatuated with Sherlock Holmes, after all. And you don't mind a little cruelty. Some might call you glutton for punishment—” She pulls a simple leather dog collar and matching lead from the bag. The sight snaps me from my paralysis.

“I-I think you should go.” The words tumble out of my mouth before I've decided to say them, and I can't seem to stop. “Sherlock is dead and I can't help you and I think I'd like to be alone now if you don't mind.” I start to stand, she just gives me a look and keeps talking as if I haven't said anything.

“But I know better. You can take punishment, and gladly, but what you _really like_ is to please. Come here,” she says-and I'm kneeling at her feet without making any conscious decision to do so. She smiles. “And you've knelt all by yourself, _very_ good.” Heat rises in my cheeks as she fastens the collar snugly around my throat and, illogically, I can't tell if its from shame or pride. She clips the lead onto the collar and I realize I can feel my pulse tapping against the leather.

For a moment, her voice changes, the seduction slipping out of it, and she looks at me seriously. “If, at any moment, you need me to stop, you say 'red.' Do you understand me?” She waits until I meet her eyes and nod slowly, then smiles, “Good. Now, Molly, I want you to undress me. You should know from Dr. Watson's blog that I enjoy having the advantage of the appropriate attire for every occasion, and this,” she gestures at her suit, “is no longer adequate. Start at the top.” She tugs lightly at the lead and I rise to my feet, breath catching. My fingers tremble as I slide the half jacket from her shoulders and she clicks her tongue to scold me when I make to drop it on the couch. I fold it carefully and set it down on the coffee table and she nods her approval.

Next comes her dress. It slides off her like a sheath from a blade once I've pulled down the zip. She's got on matching black lace bralette and knickers, as well as a garter belt holding up a pair of thigh high nude stockings. When I've rolled them down her legs and into a neat ball, my fingertips far too warm, she gives me my next instruction. “Now, Molly, in my bag you will find a pair of boots. I want you to take them out and put them on me.”

At first, I don't see the boots. My eyes just slide right over them, widening at the sheer diversity of Miss Adler's equipment. My first glance reveals a riding crop and variations thereof, assorted gags, what seem to be several short, many-tailed whips, a collection of candles, and, towards the bottom, some brightly coloured objects that are more obviously sex toys.

Irene Adler laughs at my gaping expression. “Enjoying your little peek at the goodies? No need to worry, I place more emphasis on artistry than the tools of the trade.”

A short titter escapes me. Somehow, the promise of artistry doesn't comfort me in the slightest. I dip my head to look in the bag again and, this time, I find the boots. They're black, of course, pointed toes and stiletto heels, but the part that goes up the leg is heavy lace rather than leather and there are hooks at the top to attach to her garter belt. As if someone had made shoes and stockings into the same garment.  These must fit her like a glove.

I realize quickly how much I want to see it. I want to see what she'll do if I arrange them just right. Will she be pleased if I make sure the suspenders lie perfectly straight along her thighs? Maybe she'll praise me if I keep the pattern of the lace from twisting around her legs and getting skewed.

I bite my lip at the thought. This is childish and it's _dangerous_. Not only am I playing along with the sexual scheme of a genius dominatrix, I'm falling over myself to impress her. One moment of inattention and I'll let slip something horrible and put Sherlock in danger.

Oh, but I want to want to _try it—_ what they do, the Sherlock Holmeses and Irene Alders of the world. For once, I count and I want to be something more than shy, mousy Molly Hooper. I might not be able to hide anything about me, I might come apart under her hands—her commands—but I'll keep quiet about just this one thing. Because I might not be a genius, or one of the big players, but Sherlock was _right_ to trust me. He's always right.

So. Game on then.  I take the boots from the bag and kneel before Irene, who's moved to recline on the couch, long legs extended. I make a ritual of it, carefully smoothing the lace up her thighs, lifting each leg one at a time to fasten the back strap of the suspenders before moving on to the front. She hums her approval and I have to keep a tight rein on the flush of pleasure rising from my chest.

“Now dear, I'd like for you to choose a toy from the bag.”

I hesitate, how am I supposed to _choose_?

“On you go, hop to it,” she encourages, tapping me in the stomach with the pointy toe of her shoe. I turn on my knees to stare into the black bag again, trying to make my choice. Is it better to go with what grabs my attention or something that feels safer? Or she could be tricking me into revealing something? Maybe I should go for what interests me the least? No. If I try to outsmart her I'll just embarrass myself. Better to be straightforward. I hand her a many-tailed whip that had caught my eye.

She nods appreciatively, running the mahogany tails through her palm. “Nice choice. This is one of my favorite floggers.” She stands abruptly, tugging at the lead. “Come along and bring the bag.”

I trail after her as she strolls to my bedroom and takes it in. It's really not that bad but the article or two of clothing on the floor and empty mug of tea on the bedside table mortify me. God, she probably thinks I'm a disaster. Before I can attempt some kind of apology, she orders me to undress and guides me to my knees in front of the bed once I've complied. She pauses a moment before slipping a blindfold over my eyes.

The effect is immediate. My skin begins to prickle and I can feel tension twitching in my muscles, trying to anticipate where she's standing. So the first blow, when it falls, knocks the breath out of me, mostly from shock. But it still _hurts_ and the backs of my knees feel bitten. My pulse hums along frantically against the leather of my collar. Every muscle tightens, bracing against the next impact.

000

It doesn't come. I wait forever, two minutes maybe, and then start to panic. Where is she? I didn't hear the door, so she must still be here, so why isn't she hitting me? Oh my god, I really _do_ want her to hit me. My stomach almost drops from the wave of want that realization sends through me. Just as I'm getting ready to give in and speak up, Irene's voice rings from across the room.

“Look at you,” she croons. “So delightfully jumpy. You're almost begging for the lash already. It's so vulgar it's exquisite. I could make you crawl to me right now and beg me to beat you and you'd love it. In fact, now that I've mentioned it, you're hoping I'll do just that.” I'm paying attention now so I hear the sounds of movement behind me and then the creak of the door opening. “You're itching to prove yourself. I think I'll let you.” I hear her footsteps leaving the room, and then she calls back from somewhere else in the flat. “Come to me. If you remove the blindfold or stand up, you will be punished. And you won't enjoy it.”

For a few seconds, I don't move. I'm absurdly aware of the pile of the cheap carpet digging into my knees and the beginnings of pins and needles in my toes and calves from kneeling with my legs folded under me. It's wall to wall so I'm going to feel it every step of the way. That thought sends a little shiver through me and I force myself to begin crawling before I can think too hard about it.

At first, I try moving forward quickly, following the direction of her voice before I can get disoriented, but I end up knocking into the side of the door frame. She doesn't say anything to scold me but I can hear her sigh, and it's awful, so I go slower. If I sweep my fingertips out ahead of me before taking a step I can avoid further clumsiness. My cheeks burn as I maneuver myself around furniture and slowly forward across the room. Why am I doing this? Would I crawl blind and naked across the floor of my own flat if anyone asked me to? No. If Sherlock asked? Probably. He wouldn't, though. Oh god, neither did Irene. She ordered me to, to humor me. This time, I can feel the flush spread out over my whole body.

When I reach the patch of floor where I could have sworn she was standing I start to cast about, but my hands just wave through empty air. For a moment, I'm struck with the unshakeable sensation that it's all air, I could thrash my hands about as far as I like and not find anything but space. Then her voice, from back in the bedroom, brings me back. “Over here, dear.”

000

When I finally make my way back to her, she places her hand on my head but doesn't speak. The silence stretches out for a minute before I remember that it's my turn. She's waiting for me to beg. Part of me wants nothing more than to give up with an “ok,” and run the hell away from this woman who makes me want to do mad, mortifying things. But god, I want to do those mad, mortifying things even more. So I turn on my knees and lean down on my forearms, offering up my arse. I know I look ridiculous but, rather than deterring me, the thought sends a rush of heat between my legs and my nipples begin to harden.

“Is there something you want, Molly?” Her voice is tinged with amusement.

“Yes. I want—I want to be beaten. Please.” I feel the tip of her finger under my chin, tilting my face up as if I could look her in the eye.

“You want to be beaten, please, what?”

A sudden shudder runs through me and I answer breathlessly. “Mistress. I want to be beaten please, Mistress.”

“Oh, very good,” she whispers. I can almost hear her lips pursing before pain bursts across the backs of my thighs and all I can do is groan. The next blow lands across my arse, the tips of the whip's tails wrapping around to bite into my hip. The next strikes my back, then arse again, then thighs, thighs, thighs. Each strike lands sharp, making my breath hitch, then blooms out into a burning ache. When she hits my upper thighs, the whip spanks my exposed vulva and shortens my thoughts to 'I want, I need.' In fact, it's not long before _all_ I'm thinking is wanting, dreading, loving, and awaiting the feel of whatever she gives me next. _I want to show her I can take it,_ I think and I'm practically singing.

I'm not sure how long she beats me before walking away. I'm so far under that at first I don't notice the blows have stopped coming. I'm high, I know I can take anything, I want to take everything and I can wait as long as she wants me to, I won't move a muscle.

And then I'm pitching forward and crying out and maybe I can't take anything after all, because I felt that so deep my throat wants to close. She's left off with the snap thud of the flogger, and now I'm gasping and tearing at the blows from what must be some sort of heavily weighted rod. Exhilaration becomes desperation as each blow seems to make my stomach leaden and curl tighter. Any moment now she's going to ask about Sherlock. Just a few more strokes before she knows I'm about to break. One more choked sob and it'll all smash to pieces. I'll say 'red' and she'll stop and never start again ever and then she'll ask about Sherlock and I'll be so wilted everything will spill out like loose teeth.

And I just can't. Ican'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan't _Ican't_. I don't know if that means I can't take anymore or I can't break my promise to Sherlock. But it doesn't matter because the moment I hear Irene's voice,  flat and unreadable, asking “Is there something you want to tell me?” 'I can't' becomes 'Iwon'tIwon'tIwon't.' She can smirk and sigh and beat me bloody and I'll shatter, and probably vomit, but I won't say anything I won't.

And then she hits me again and I am shattering; I'm breaking apart and I can't feel any of my joints....

Until her hands are on my back, stroking up and down, grounding me. She twines her fingers through my hair and pulls, firm but not cruel, raising me off the floor. By the time she has me laid out on the bed, all my built up tension is starting to melt into bonelessness. Thank god she doesn't want me to stand.

I hear her rummaging around her bag, opening and closing zippers, and then there's the little scraping sound of a lighter. If I put my mind to it, I could probably figure out what's coming next but I don't care to. After that caning, I'm not too concerned she'll throw something at me I can't handle. She had her moment to break me and she pulled me back.

Her hands find their way to my shoulders, rubbing some kind of lotion all down my back and thighs. I feel a sharp point of hot pain rolling down my spine and fading away just as another starts below my shoulder blade, sliding off my back and down my breast. Then there's more on the other side, fat dribbles running down my ribcage and slipping over the side of my back. Each drop lands searing and trails off into a soft lick of flame. My whole back heats until the skin tingles, and then she starts moving down to my arse and thighs....

I'm equally relaxed and excited; the pain is sharp enough I'm panting but the heat slowly relaxes my muscles and calms my mind. I can't see her but I can just barely hear her breathing and I can feel what sensations she sees fit to give me.

The wax, because that's what it is, slowly trails up and down my body, teasing at erogenous zones I didn't know I had. Every so often, I feel a dulled blade scraping off the wax before she starts again, hitting different spots entirely. As she works me over until my skin seems to prickle and vibrate, the heat starts to move, pooling between my thighs. I have to struggle not to squirm and angle for friction. She hums, a small, hungry sound, and speaks for the first time since asking if I had anything to say. “I'm going to take off your blindfold and, when I do, it becomes my turn. This evening, up until now, has been about you, and that's about to change. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Adler,” I answer. I'm not actually certain that I do but, god, do I want to try. She sits me down on my knees in front of her and reaches around to untie my blindfold. When I open my eyes she's closer than I expected, her face only several centimeters from mine. My lips part automatically and I see something self-indulgent flicker across her expression, a sort of don't-mind-if-I-do, before she kisses me. She takes and takes, sliding her tongue into my mouth and exploring leisurely. I inhale sharply through my nose and do my best to give as good as I get. While I'm still completely submissive to her, all the stuttering uncertainty I started off the night with has fled and I am _not_ passing up the opportunity to snog Irene Adler, infamous dominatrix.

She sucks hard on my bottom lip, catching it between her teeth and nipping sharply, not quite enough to bleed. I'm moaning into her mouth and, oh god, do I really make that sound? She reaches her hand around to tangle in my hair and pulls me away from her, holding me firmly in place a foot back.

“Hmm, shall I give you instructions? I could tell you exactly how I need it, every button to push to get me off exactly how I want. Or maybe I should give you the opportunity to explore for yourself? What do you think? Can you can impress me?” She finishes the sentence barely centimeters away from my ear, and bites my earlobe before I can even think to answer. I whimper and try to get a hold of my voice.

“I'd like to try...Mistress.”

She quirks her lips at the unprompted title, but doesn't comment. Instead, she lies back and smiles. “Alright then, show me what you can do, Molly Hooper.”

000

I lean over her, hands resting on either side of her shoulders, and start to taste her skin. My tongue trails over her collarbone and down to circle the swell of her left breast. Her nipples are small, hard points, and I wish I had been paying enough attention to know if they've been that way or if it's a direct result of my attention. She brings her hand up lazily and traces a finger over my back, humming softly in approval.

I switch to her other breast. God, I want to suck her nipple into my mouth, feel it against the flat of my tongue. Nope, no, I need to do this for her, not for me. And she won't enjoy it if I jump right in, slobbering like an over-eager 17-year-old boy.

So I take my time and try to do what Sherlock's always saying no one does: pay attention. I nibble on her collarbone with my eyes rolled up to watch her face. A wrinkle forms between her brows before smoothing away. Encouraged, I suck the skin into my mouth and lath my tongue over it. Her lips part minutely and I move down to dip my tongue into her navel. I move over her torso mouthing and teasing, trying out different kinds of stimulation. When I notice her breathing coming faster I let myself suck on one nipple and pinch the other between my thumb and forefinger, tugging lightly. She makes a pleased and slightly urgent sound in the back of her throat. Perfect.

Women are harder to please than men, with less obvious signs to tell if what you're doing is working, but Irene wants me to succeed. She's not wailing or making a fuss, but neither is she holding back and I'm clearly on the right track.

I use one hand to support myself and let the other trail down to stroke her thighs and hips, alternating between teasing her with the tips of my fingers and kneading handfuls of flesh. “Yes. Molly.” Her voice has gone soft, but it's no less powerful, and I feel it go straight to my clit. My mouth waters. I want to taste her. I want to hear that voice dripping over me like her slickness. I want to feel her coming against my face.

Her breathing hitches when I move down her body and settle between her thighs. We both know what's coming but I force myself to draw it out a little longer. If I'm going to impress her, I can't just get her off, I have to find every little point of pleasure I can. Her legs spread out around me, milk and honey, and I slide my hands down to lift and bend them at the knee. God, she's gorgeous.

I hook her right leg over my shoulder and tease up and down her inner thigh with kisses, licks and nibbles. Then I lean in to lick a stripe up the seam where her thigh becomes soft folds before drawing away and placing her foot back down on the bed. I repeat the process on the other side only this time I pull further back so her leg straightens, still resting on my shoulder, and I can scrape my teeth over the meat of her calf.

By the time I've covered all of her lower body except the one part we both desperately want me to touch, I'm just as aroused as she is, probably more. “I admire your thoroughness, Molly, but please do _get to it,_ ” she says and, maybe I'm imagining it, but the sarcasm in her voice sounds just a bit forced. I smile a little hysterically and bend to bring my lips to hers. My tongue curls up and flicks over the thin velvet skin covering her clitoris. She moans, not loud, but throaty.

I'm drowning in the smell of her, heady, richly sour, and so _wet_. I could drink it. Instead, I slide the flat of my tongue over as much area as I can cover, from the bottom of her opening up over her swollen clit. She cants her hips to follow the movement and I feel a sympathetic thrill of pleasure curling out from my own core. God, she's so, she's so—I don't know how to finish that thought other than to kiss her like I would a mouth, dipping my tongue into her, sucking on her inner and outer lips, worrying at her clit. She's building towards it now, not quite on the edge, but it's on the horizon. She has her hands woven into my hair, holding me against her as she rocks and her feet dig into the mattress. I try to moan but her flesh muffles the sound into a low hum and that just makes me impossibly wetter. I must be dripping down my own leg by now. My hips buck uselessly against empty air.

She must notice my neediness because she says, “Shift, Molly, and you may grind against my leg. You're a sight like this, needy and trying so hard not to be selfish.” _God._ Her voice is steady but breathless, and I'm moving embarrassingly quickly to follow her instructions. I position myself with her shin wedged between my thighs and give my hips a slow roll.

 _“Fuck,”_ I groan aloud as pleasure washes through me. She fists her hands tighter in my hair and pushes me back down but still adjusts the angle of her leg to keep me panting.

We're both chasing orgasm now, moving together and building momentum. I'm distracted by my own need but manage not to falter in my task. I want to feel her coming under my tongue and the way she's moving, short, rolling, snaps of her hips, it won't be long. I'm rutting against her now, my cheeks flushed, and the phrase 'like a bitch in heat' won't stop running idiotically through my head.

“Come, Molly, you're savage, come for me, now!” And I do, my whole body curling convulsively, my chin tucked down to my chest as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over me. I'm still gasping for breath and riding the aftershocks when she forces my mouth back to her clit. I instinctively suck hard and then her thighs are pinning my head in a vice grip and she's coming hard all around me.

000

For a few long minutes we don't do anything but rest, blissed out, and wait to get our breath back. When I'm back in something at least close to my right mind, I crawl up the mattress to flop down hesitantly beside her. I turn my head and finally get a really good look at her since all this started. Her skin is flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat that's almost golden in the soft light of the lamp by my bed. Tendrils of hair have worked themselves out of her carefully coiffed curls and stick damply to her temples. She looks over sexed and completely beautiful and no less in control for the loss of her well-maintained posh veneer. One of her hands comes up to play absently with my hair and it's a long time before either of us say anything. Confusion and anxiety start to knot slowly in my belly and finally I have to ask.

“Um. You haven't said anything about, I mean. Didn't you come here with a, er, motive?” Great, just wonderful, any temporary ability to form coherent sentences clearly left me when Operation Take Molly Apart ended.

Irene Adler rolls onto her side and raises herself onto her elbow to look at me, her eyes lit with curiosity and a hint of amusement. “Yes, I did. Did you think I was going to torture it out of you?”

I gape at her. “Weren't you? What was all—” I snap my mouth shut, too flummoxed to finish my sentence.

She laughs, loud and genuine. “I'm a dominatrix, Molly, not a thug. My business is not what people hate or can't bear, but what they like. It would be easy to push just a little harder and break someone's limits, but that's missing the point of the exercise. I push to find the need buried so deep it's never been voiced let alone asked for or fulfilled. I find that need and blow it open so wide that pretending it's not there is unthinkable.” She looks at me like that explains everything and I must have “what” written all over my face because she sighs and elaborates.

“You've seen how deep you can go, Molly, how high and low I can take you. Now think, is there anyone else, other than maybe Sherlock Holmes, who could get you there?”

God, she's right. My stomach does a little half flip. No one else would be able to take me that close to the edge and know just when to pull me back. No one else could know exactly what I need.

“And I don't think Sherlock's really one for indulging pets, do you? Well, cuddly army doctors aside, of course. So, as I see it, that leaves me.” I swallow, conceding the point. She reaches out and loops her index finger through the ring on my collar, tugging me towards her slightly, and it's like flipping a switch. I slip right back into that mental space where the whole world is quieted to _submit, submit, submit._

Her voice, when she speaks again, curls around my spine like a serpent and I can't look away. “I could keep you, you know, so easily. I know what you need and I enjoy giving it to you. It only seems right that you should belong to me. But I choose my possessions very, very carefully and you haven't quite proven yourself yet. Now, I fully understand that you're deeply attached to Sherlock, and probably feel that giving me any information regarding his whereabouts would be tantamount to betrayal, but I assure you that is not the case. I only want his advice on a rather sensitive matter in which I seem to have become entangled. I give you my word that he will suffer no harm or danger should you choose to aid me in contacting him.”

When she's finished, my eyes flicker closed. I can see so clearly what she's offering me and it's everything I've never had. It's mattering and _doing_ things and seeing something more than the tube ride to Bart's every day and, _god_ , it's being able to surrender utterly, totally, and ride the knife's edge limit of what I'm capable of. It's terrifying how much I want it, is what it is.

What she's threatening is, if possible, even clearer. It's Irene walking away and leaving me with none of that, ever. Oh, I could find someone to beat me, order me about, make me crawl. I know how to use the internet and it wouldn't be hard to find others with like interests. But she's right; that wouldn't be enough, not after tonight. No one ordinary could make me feel like this. And now that I've felt it, it's painfully obvious that I'll always want it, always need it. If I suffered through mediocrity before, it will torment me now.

Air leaves my chest in something between a sigh and an exhalation. “No.”

For the first time since she appeared in my sitting room, Irene Adler looks taken aback. “No, what?”

“No, I won't help you contact Sherlock,” I say, unfastening the collar from my neck and handing it to her. My voice is still quiet but, now that I've said it, it's true and I won't waver. You'd think that this, my grand gesture of defiance, would stem from some 'undying love' for Sherlock or, at least, that sense of loyalty Irene mentioned but in the end it's neither. No, in the end I'm able to choose to go back to ordinary, back to every day just being time going by because of John Watson.

Because he doesn't get to trust in Sherlock Holmes to sort this out, to come back. He doesn't get to fall back on instructions from a man who might as well be a super hero. If he can wake up in the morning thinking it's never going to end, without anything to trust in, when I _know..._ I _know...._ Well then I owe it to Dr. Watson to trust Sherlock and Sherlock said not to let anyone get to him, no matter what. Oh, I'll send him a sign, use that dating site he had me make an account for to warn him the Woman's looking for him, but I won't give her the advantage she wants. Sexual and intellectual ennui are tolerable enough compared to not being able to trust Sherlock to come back to life.

She's looking at me like she's really interested. All night, she's been focused on me, seducing me, pushing me just enough and in the right places, even when I was giving her pleasure it was part of her playing the game. And all she's been interested in is winning. Now, for some reason, she's looking at me and she's intrigued. She fiddles with the collar in her hand, rubbing her thumb over the buckle meditatively. “You're quite sure? As I said before, he will come to no harm. I'll even let you contact him first and he can choose the meeting place or method of communication. Take any precautions he likes.”

“Sherlock is dead.” It doesn't matter that she knows I'm lying, because she also knows I've made up my mind.

She raises her eyebrows and, if I didn't know better, I'd think she's impressed. “I'm starting to think he might be...” she says absently, still staring at me. “Come with me, anyway.”

It's my turn to gape, “What?”

“Come with me.”

“But, I haven't given you what you wanted.” I frown, heart pounding through my confusion.

She licks her lips and I realize we've both gone completely off script. “I know,” she begins carefully, “I think that might turn out to be...valuable. Will you come? I promise to never speak of the dead.”

My throat tightens—then my answer rushes out like breathe, “ _God_ , yes.”


End file.
